


In Your Apartment

by mm8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As always he blamed Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Sherlock's Summer Vacay at sherlockmas and Cottoncandy_Bingo round 1. Thanks to the mods of both comms and to my beta czrina_kitty.

As always he blamed Sherlock. 

Summer meant sunbathing at the beach, eating ice cream at every possible chance, drinking fruity alcoholic beverages… Sherlock never seemed to get this message. 

It was 40 degrees Celsius in early August. Everyone was encouraged to stay indoors with the air conditioning on, stay hydrated, and relax. Sherlock seemed to have not gotten that message either.

Instead they were dressed in heavy clothes as if they were going skiing in the Alps in midwinter. _Blending in_ , Sherlock had said. _Blending in with who and where?_ John had replied. 

But he had to admit that Sherlock had been right on this one (again). The perpetrators were two Norwegian scientists who just returned from the South Pole with tons of stolen classified documents with the intention of selling them to third world nations without anyone on the base noticing. Except Mycroft and his agents were _good_ at what they did and had found out rather quickly. They wanted this incident swept under the rug and had employed Sherlock and John to retrieve the documents. 

Since the Norwegians' plane had landed at Heathrow twenty minutes ago they had done nothing but constantly chase down the criminals by cab, the tube, and of course by running all the way to Hounslow. 

John wasn't sure how the Norwegians were holding up so well. They were wearing just as much clothing as he and Sherlock. Maybe it was all the calories they had to eat to maintain their body in the South Pole that was keeping them going now. Or… maybe they had _a lot_ of water to drink on the flight. 

Damn he must be losing it. None of that had made sense. John was so hot. God, he was burning. He was tempted to tear off the ridiculous layers of Gore-Tex and faux fur but then he'd be running in the streets with nothing but his boxers and with his luck he'd get slapped with an ASBO. 

And he kept going slower and slower. Sherlock seemed miles ahead of him now. John finally slowed to a crawl and stopped, doubling over and gripping his knees, panting like a dog.

"Come on, John! They're getting away!" He heard Sherlock's baritone voice in the distance.

Oh God, he felt so dizzy. His mouth was dry… Was it just him or was the pavement suddenly coming very close to his face?

John could have sworn he'd closed his eyes for just a moment when he felt himself being lifted off the ground.

_"Sir, he's severally dehydrated. Accelerated heart rate. Fever. Dry skin. And with the collapse this all could point to early signs of a heat stroke…"_

The voices kept fading in and out and sounded so far away.

 _"Be gentle with him,"_ someone ordered. _"When I get my hands on my brother…"_

"Mycroft?" John croaked before everything went black.

* * *

When John first opened his eyes he immediately shut them again. The light was too bright for his liking and his eyelids felt like they were stuck together with glue. Once he opened them again the room was darker and he adjusted more quickly. John opened and closed his mouth like a fish to discover that his mouth was still a bit dry. He moved his left arm but found that it was attached to an IV drip. Hospital then, he supposed. It was hard to tell where he was in the dark. 

Suddenly he heard some shuffling like shoes scraping against hardwood floors. He indistinctively turned his head toward the source of the sound. Someone took a chair and pulled it towards his bed.

"John? John can you hear me? Are you awake?"

He blinked and opened his mouth, his voice was hoarse. "Mycroft?"

"Here, sip slowly."

A straw was thrust in between his lips and he sucked on the water. God, it felt so good. Too soon his partner took away the cup.

"Small sips at a time, or so I was told by a doctor once."

John could practically hear the smile in Mycroft's voice.

"Where am I? And what time is it?" His body ached.

He could hear Mycroft shift in the chair (a nervous tic) before answering. "It's almost two in the morning. You've been out for quite some time. My idiot brother didn't notice you weren't with him until long after we'd picked you up. He retrieved the documents," Mycroft said sensing John's next question. "My dear brother suffered a similar fate as you though not as severe." His voice seemed very tense at that part. "He's been confined to Baker Street and being guarded by my best people for a week for his behavior. No cases. Certainly no drugs. Just himself for company. He's been warned that every time he tries to escape that I will add another week to his confinement."

John's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "Mycroft, you can't be serious? Isn't that… a little more than harsh? He is Sherlock."

"He may be Sherlock, John," Mycroft's voice was full of seriousness. "But no one, not even him, endangers your life to the point that you could actually _die_."

John laughed which ended up turning into a coughing fit. After he took another sip of water he retorted, "You know that is utterly preposterous, right? In the time I have known your brother I have been," he began to tick them off on his fingers. "Kidnapped by the Chinese mafia, was nearly blown up by Moriarty—"

"I wasn't dating you then. And I never said it had to make sense." Mycroft replied with tenderness. He rose from the chair, leaned over and kissed John's forehead. "Sleep, John. I'll see you again in the morning."

"You didn't answer my other question." John yawned.

"You'll see where you are when you wake up. Sleep now." 

"You sound creepy Mycroft," John said into his pillow.

The last thing he heard before he succumbed to sleep was the ominous laugh of Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

It was bright when John awoke, probably a few hours after sunrise. Stray sun beams peaked through the curtains of a nearby window onto his bed. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand since his left arm was attached to the IV drip and blinked a few times to adjust to the light. 

What he saw was that he was in no ordinary hospital room. This place was posh. It was like he was in the middle of a museum. The walls were furnished with soothing Chinese paintings of lotuses. Around the room there were clear cases displaying objects, what exactly was in the cases John couldn't tell from his place at the bed. And… in the corner farthest from the door he could shave sworn that was a Terracotta Warrior.

"Everything in this room is original, no replicas."

John turned to see Anthea by the doorway typing away on her blackberry. 

"You suffered a mild concussion from your collapse and needed stitches on your forehead. You will most likely have a scar there for the time being but it will not be permanent. Due to the fact that you were dehydrated, had a slight fever and running around in that ridiculous getup you exhibited signs of oncoming heat stroke. We're keeping you for observation." She paused and looked at directly for the first time. "He's worried about you, you know."

John wasn't quite sure what to say to that. 

"Your breakfast is on the table beside you along with a glass of water. Eat and drink slowly. He'll be along in a moment."

Mycroft came around while John was midway through his eggs. His partner looked pale and his suit was somewhat disheveled as though he had slept in it. He swept across the room to John's side in three wide strides. 

He looked down at John fondly, stroking his cheek but eyes his forehead. "The doctor did a good job patching you up."

John leaned into his partner's touch. "Mycroft, where I am? This isn't Bart's or any other hospital I've ever been to before."

Mycroft's forehead creased. "Haven't you guessed? This is my home, John."

John's scanned the room again. "You mean this is all yours?"

"Yes," Mycroft said appreciatively. "I collect things from all the world on my travels. As you can noticeably see this room is dedicated exclusively to the country of China."

John grinned up at his partner. "So you finally invite me over to your place, eh? It only took for me to get a bump on the head while chasing after some criminals on the hottest day of summer."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that—"

John grasped Mycroft's hand and interlaced their fingers. "Be kinder to Sherlock, please? You know it wasn't his fault."

Mycroft gave him a taut smile before bending down to kiss his hand. "As you wish as long as you agree to spend the rest of the week in my flat with me in my care?"

John answered him with a kiss. "Does that satisfy you?"

Mycroft didn't have to say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> * Kudos are amazing and I will never stop asking for them, but getting comments, actual feedback from readers means so much. Taking five seconds out of your time can really make my day.
>   
> 
> * You can follow me on [tumblr](http://mm8fic.tumblr.com/).
>   
> 


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